Burn
by lirodendron
Summary: Set between the end of The Great Game/beginning of Scandal in Belgravia and the rest of Scandal. Sherlock becomes obsessed with finding out what Moriarty's threats mean. Some drug use, profanity, and innuendo.
1. Chapter 1

It had been six days since they had met Moriarty at the pool and nearly lost both their lives. By John's count, Sherlock had not eaten so much as a biscuit since then. They had both been silent on the way home from Scotland Yard, after recounting the story in detail numerous times to numerous police officers, each man too caught up in recovering from his own private nightmare to say any more. When they reached 221B, John made the tea. "You never got the milk," he commented, his face deadpan.

"I never do." John swore there was a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face, but it faded quickly. They drank the tea without milk and without speaking, and sat motionless for minutes after they finished, too tired to go to bed. Finally John roused himself to go upstairs. Sherlock seemed lost in his own thoughts, but there was nothing unusual about that. John patted Sherlock's shoulder stoutly on his way past.

"All right then?"

"Mm?"

"I said are you all right? I'm going to bed."

"Yes, fine, of course, doing the same." But Sherlock made no move to stir. John shrugged, murmured good night, and dragged himself to his room. He fell promptly into a dreamless, battlefield sleep, the sleep of a soldier with a mission accomplished. He awoke several hours later, sometime before dawn, to hear footsteps in the hall outside his room. One, two, three, four, five, six. Stop. One, two, three, four, five, six. Stop.

John listened for several minutes and then began to get annoyed. He got up and opened the door. Sherlock was pacing the length of the short hall, still fully dressed in yesterday's clothes. He paused when John opened the door, then resumed his pacing without so much as a glance in John's direction.

"What in God's name are you doing? It's four in the morning and after what I've been through I don't think a little sleep is too much to ask." John was furious in the way only a man awakened prematurely after a near death experience could be.

"Pacing. Helps me think."

"I know you're pacing, that's what woke me up. But can't you think downstairs? I'm used to you keeping the hours of an alley cat, but must you do it right outside my door?" John sighed. He was too tired for this.

"Air is better up here for thinking. Floorboards springier. Can't think down there. Stifling. And filthy."

"Maybe you should direct your nocturnal energies to cleaning up, then."

Sherlock ignored him and continued without a break in tempo, hands clasped behind his back, fingers worrying at each other. John could see he was getting nowhere. With a noise of frustration he slammed the door, threw himself back in bed, and pulled his pillow over his head. He slept fitfully the rest of the night, the rhythm of footsteps echoing in his dreams.

That had been nearly a week ago. Sherlock had barely said a word since then. He hadn't left the house, had only changed his clothes under extreme duress, and refused to eat. John had taken a leave of absence from the surgery, as they preferred their doctors not to work on patients immediately after being taken hostage and nearly blown up, and was staring at two full weeks at home with nothing much to occupy him except a flatmate who appeared intent upon turning himself into a skeleton.

For the first few days, John had just assumed he was in one of his moods and largely ignored him. He had tidied up, updated the blog, gone to the movies with Sarah, and fielded requests for them to work on new cases. Sherlock turned every one down with an enraged "No!" as if he were shocked John would even suggest they attempt to solve a crime. After the third day, and a refusal to even be tempted by a case in which the victim had been somehow exsanguinated in a locked basement room, with no trace of blood or murder weapon, John truly began to worry.

Meanwhile, Sherlock alternated between pacing, sitting motionless staring at nothing, and occasionally committing random acts of destruction around the flat. He was normally thin and bony, but now he grew positively cadaverous. He did not appear to sleep and took only tea. John resorted to pouring as much milk and sugar as he dared into each cup, in an attempt to get some calories into the man. He was desperate to get out of the flat but was fearful of what Sherlock might do if he wasn't there.

Sherlock had taken to shadowing him as well. Despite completely ignoring John, he also managed to never be more than a few feet away from him. It was maddening. He paced the upstairs hall every night. All night.

On the morning of the seventh day, John fairly slammed Sherlock's tea down in front of him, along with a piece of toast slathered in jam. "Eat, damn you."

"Just tea," Sherlock said absently, without glancing at the table or at John.

"Sherlock, if you don't eat something I swear I will have you sectioned!"

Sherlock shook himself out of his trance, startled, and finally looked at John, his grey eyes taking a few seconds to focus. "What are you going on about?"

"You haven't eaten in days, you barely speak, you won't take cases, and you drove off my last date so viciously I'll be surprised if it doesn't end up in the papers. You grumble when I go out but refuse to acknowledge me when I'm here, other than to silently stalk me through the halls of the flat! You haven't got a pound to lose, either. If you don't start taking care of yourself I'm going to have do something about it. Don't think I'm joking."

Sherlock irritably grabbed the cup and the toast, and took a swig and a bite. "Ugh. Strawberry," he threw the piece of toast across the room where it stuck to the wall for a moment before sliding down to the floor, leaving a red streak on the wallpaper. "And is there actually any tea_ in_ this tea? It tastes like a cow regurgitated a sugar factory."

John held his temper. "That's the most you've said to me or to anyone else in over a week. I know this has something to do with what happened at the pool. It shook us both up. Just talk to me."

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, drawing his legs more tightly to himself and running his hand through his hair, pulling at it. He finally met John's gaze. "He beat us, John."

"We're still alive, Sherlock. We're both fine. He didn't beat us."

Sherlock snorted and leapt to his feet, pacing the kitchen with increasing speed. "We're alive because he didn't feel like dying that day, and found something better to do. He was in control the entire time. The only option for us was whether or not we wanted to take him with us when we died. He beat us, he beat _me_. And then he got away. He just…vanished."

"We'll find him," John said confidently. "Or someone will. The entire police force and half the government is looking for him now. He may be smart, but he can't hide forever."

"He's more than smart," Sherlock snarled, rounding on him. "He's a genius. And he controls more people and money than even I can calculate. He won't be found until he wants to be. I've gone over everything, every detail, and there's nothing that would lead me to him. Not a fiber, not a fingerprint, not a smell, not a mote of dust. I'm sure he's watching us, but we won't see him until he decides it's time to finish the game."

John wanted to be reassuring, but knew in his heart that Sherlock was probably right. "Then all the more reason for you to keep your strength up and your wits keen," he said, bracingly.

"My wits are always keen," Sherlock said. He put his hand suddenly to his forehead and inhaled sharply.

"Yeah, well, I can see that. Headache?"

Sherlock nodded tightly.

"How long?"

"Three days. Four days. I don't know! What do you suppose he meant?"

John was bewildered. "Meant by what? By trying to kill us?"

"No, no, no! When he said he'd burn the heart out of me. I've been turning it over and over in my head and it won't fit anywhere. What does it mean, John?" He collapsed back into his chair.

John shrugged. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything," he said, lamely.

"It means something. Moriarty doesn't say anything without a reason. But what does he mean by my heart?"

"I don't know! He's mad, Sherlock."

"And I'm not? There's truth in madness too. What of mine could he possibly burn?"

The question was left hanging there. Sherlock looked at John almost pleadingly, as though he was out of his depth. John awkwardly put an arm around his friend's shoulders. He could feel every bone, every vertebra. Sherlock jumped at his touch, as if he had forgotten the other man was there, but didn't move away. Finally John said, "If I make some eggs will you eat them and take some medicine for your headache? Then maybe you can sleep."

"Fine!" Sherlock said moodily, shrugging him off at last. "If it means that much to you. But no sleep. Can't sleep." He returned to stalking the length of the kitchen, once again in his own private world.

After Sherlock had eaten and taken the pills offered, John felt like he could go out. He still didn't like to leave with Sherlock in this state, but he needed a break. Mrs. Hudson was home, and he'd scoured the flat for alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs, although he'd left a couple nicotine patches in easy-to-find locations. Anything that would calm Sherlock down at this point, he thought. He headed to Sarah's. He had nowhere else to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock watched John leave, in a fury for no reason he could name. His head still pounded and his nerves screamed at him. He wanted to jump out of his skin, but there was no escape. _Burn the heart out of you_. What did it mean? Why didn't he know? Moriarty acted like he should know. He should ask Moriarty. Where was Moriarty? Not here. Not at the pool. Not anywhere. He was gone, like a ghost. Sherlock felt like a ghost. Maybe if he was a ghost he could find him. But ghosts don't have hearts, nothing to burn. He wouldn't need to ask. But then he'd never know, and he'd be a mad ghost. Like Moriarty.

He caught himself laughing in a way he knew was not entirely sane. He didn't like it when John was gone lately. Anything could happen. He had to stay close to John, didn't he? John was infuriating. He didn't understand. Always talking and asking questions and complaining. Wouldn't let him alone. But last time he'd gone to Sarah's there'd been a bomb instead, and then he'd tried to die to save Sherlock. That mustn't happen again. John really should be more careful.

_He_ should be more careful. He had acted confident when Moriarty tried to kill them both, but he knew he was on the losing side from the beginning. How had he let himself get into such a poor situation? What had he missed? He'd missed everything. He was missing everything now. No one could leave no trace, not even Jim Moriarty. And Jim Moriarty wouldn't want to. It wasn't part of the game to be unfindable. Sherlock must be playing wrong. But he didn't have the rules.

Sherlock's thoughts swirled around in his head, forming ever tighter concentric circles. He had to solve it. He had to fix it. He had to find out what his heart was. But he didn't have a heart, everyone said so. Even John. It must be a riddle. He hated riddles.

He couldn't think. His brain was too hot. He couldn't remember when he'd slept last. He stumbled to the bookcase, searching for the right volume. His vision was blurry. There it was. Edgar Allen Poe. He pulled the book halfway off the shelf and then jumped up and down three times in front of the bookcase. A small compartment opened seamlessly from the shelf below the selected book. Sherlock smiled to himself. John hadn't found everything. From the compartment he took a small vial, a syringe, and a length of rubber tubing. Then he went upstairs.

* * *

Sarah buzzed John in and then threw her arms around him when he walked through the door. He hugged her back tightly. She was soft and smelled of soap and green apple shampoo.

"That was an enthusiastic greeting," he said, pleased. "What did I do to deserve that?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Nothing. Just lately I can't seem to shake the feeling that when you text me that you're coming over, you aren't going to make it here."

John sighed. "Me neither," he admitted, sinking down on the couch.

She examined him critically. "You look like hell. You been eating?"

He barked a laugh. The cruel irony was he'd spent so much time trying to keep Sherlock from starving to death that he'd barely fed himself. "Not getting much sleep either, I suppose."

Sarah frowned. "I'll do us a fry up," she said, going into the kitchen. John followed wearily. "Now, tell me what's up. You said Sherlock was acting weird, but isn't he always?"

"This is beyond it, even for him." John filled her in on the details of the past few days, and their conversation this morning.

She listened quietly as she cooked. As he finished, she slid a huge plate of food in front him and joined him at the kitchen table. "Sounds serious. And he's right, seems like Moriarty isn't done with him. With either of you. It scares me, John."

"If I'm honest, it does me too," he said, tucking in to the food ravenously. "But I'm more worried about Sherlock. If he doesn't get over this obsession, he'll be in no condition to face him again and then where does that leave us? If he can't find a clue to Moriarty's whereabouts, or figure out what his plan is, than I certainly won't be able to. I wouldn't even know where to start, I'm just glad I didn't get blown up."

Sarah patted his leg. "Me too."

He finished his meal and helped clear up, and they settled on the sofa with mugs of tea. John yawned. "Thanks for letting me come here. Sometimes I need to get away."

She smiled enigmatically. "I figure you need someone to take care of you once in a while."

"That I do. But I after what I've put you through, you have no reason to be that someone." He took her hand and moved closer to her. "I'm grateful."

"You can owe me." He could feel her breath on his cheek. She was so beautiful, so vital. Everything lately had been death and darkness. He longed for someone to make him feel alive.

"Going to stay over?" she asked.

"That depends."

"On?"

"On whether I've been promoted from the lie-low." He put a hand on her neck, under her silky hair, and impulsively pulled her face towards his.

She made a soft sound of assent but then at the last moment pulled away, untangling her fingers from his.

"I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?" He asked, confused but somehow unsurprised.

She shook her head and smiled ruefully. "No, John, never. I shouldn't have…" she sighed. "John, I love a good no-strings-attached romp as much as the next girl. And we both sure could use one. But I like you too much for it to end any other way than painfully."

"Well, who said no-strings-attached?" John said, indignant. "I was counting on strings, I like strings!"

"I know you do, you've got plenty of them already," Sarah said, her voice gentle but chiding.

"I don't understand," he said helplessly.

"You're attached to someone in such a way that means you can never truly be attached to anyone else. Not completely. And I love that about you. It's beautiful, really. I just can't…live with that."

"Sherlock!? We're not –"

She cut him off. "It doesn't matter what you are or aren't. But you need to face the fact that he's the most important thing in your life. Until you do, you'll always be making promises you won't be able to keep."

"I think that's a bit unfair," John said, hurt.

"I don't. And I only say it because I care about you. But if you are really honest with yourself, you know what Moriarty meant by what he said to Sherlock. Because he nearly burned out your heart too."

They were silent for several minutes. "I'm sorry," John offered at last.

She shook her head. "Don't be."

"I…should go. I shouldn't have left him this long, really." She walked him to the door, and they stood uncomfortably in the passageway.

"I know you probably won't come round again," she began.

"Don't be silly…"

She put a hand up at his protest. "But you're always welcome, please remember that." She looked at him with such sad eyes that all he could think to do was kiss her fair cheek and walk away quickly.

When he got home, the lights were all off and the house was filled with the sound of a violin concerto. For a moment, he was encouraged. At least Sherlock was feeling well enough to play again – some progress. But then he realized what he was hearing was a recording. His heart leapt to his throat. Something was wrong. The first floor was empty. He rushed upstairs. No one in the bathroom. The door to his room was ajar – he'd left it closed, as he always did, in a vain attempt to prevent Sherlock from going through his things.

Warily, he pulled his gun. He listened at the door. Nothing but the music. He pushed open the door, weapon at the ready, expecting to come face to face with Moriarty, or something even worse. Instead, in the low light of his single lamp, he saw only an emaciated figure sprawled diagonally on his bed. Sherlock was wearing his favorite scarf and a pair of trousers that were far too short for him – his trousers, John realized.

"Sherlock, what in the world are you doing in here?" he demanded, holstering his gun and rushing over to the bed.

Sherlock lifted his head. "Heroin. Why, what does it look like I'm doing?" he said indistinctly.

"Bloody hell!" The needle tracks in his arm were clear now, both old and new, the discarded syringe still on the bed next to him.

"Oh, don't act so surprised. I know Mycroft told you everything so you could babysit me for him. You just couldn't find all the secret hiding places!" He giggled.

"And there wasn't heroin in the ones I did find!" John snapped.

"Of course not. Why would I put my heroin where you could find it?"

John removed the loosened, make-shift tourniquet from his arm. "You're burning up," he said, putting a hand on Sherlock's clammy head. His skin, always pale, was practically translucent and his dark curls were slicked to his skull. "How long has this been going on?"

"Don't get in a huff, it's not a regular thing. Well, not anymore." Sherlock tried to sit up but failed utterly and fell back to the bed. "Am I standing?"

"Not even a little," John grunted, as he shifted Sherlock so he was facing the right way on the bed and covered him with the sheet. "Why did you do this, why now? You've been clean for months. Or have you?"

"I couldn't think. I had to think, I had to remember. There's got to be an answer. I've got to find him."

"And this helps you think? Really?"

Sherlock writhed beneath the covers. "Sometimes…the mind needs to be set free."

John looked at his friend with pity. It must be difficult to be tortured by your own mind, day in and day out. He'd had enough of a taste of that to know, and he was sure it wasn't half of what Sherlock was going through. "Does it always take you like this? This isn't a normal reaction."

"No…miscalculated. Lack of sleep and low body weight…Will wear off."

John nodded. It was bad, but not a fatal overdose. Nothing to do but ride it out, now. "Sherlock, why did you come up here to my room? Why are you wearing my trousers?"

"You were gone. Think better up here. Needed to think about you to think about him. First I was hot, then I was cold," he gestured helplessly to the trousers.

"Shh, never mind," John said. "Stay still, I'll be right back."

He shut off the record, filled a basin with cold water, and got a washcloth. Then he pulled the chair from the corner of his room over to the bed and settled himself in it, putting a cool cloth on the feverish head. "Just be still," he said. "This will pass."

Sherlock nodded vaguely but made no other move. He seemed to have fallen asleep. John took his skinny wrist and felt for a pulse. Weak, but steady. He relaxed slightly, but did not remove his fingers from the pulse point. Sherlock's hand tightened around his unconsciously, and John did not try to remove himself from its grip.


	3. Chapter 3

Finally it was quiet inside his head. Sherlock supposed he must have fallen asleep; certainly his body didn't seem to be of any consequence at the moment, but he felt like he was thinking clearly for the first time in days. He knew he'd over done it and had been a bit concerned at first that he'd gone too far, even for him. But the worst had passed, and he was aware of a cool sensation, radiating from his forehead that seemed to suffuse his whole being and bring clarity. He was floating. He felt like a balloon, like he might just drift up and away from everything if he weren't tethered somehow. It was a paltry little string that held him, he could break it if he wanted to and fly off, but he didn't want to right now. Now he wanted to think.

In the darkness of his head he pulled up every event, every detail connected with Moriarty. He scrutinized them again, frame by frame, trying to find a connection, a clue, anything. Five pips. Carl Powers. Trains. Missile plans. Columbia. A golem. A Vermeer. They only thing they had in common was Moriarty himself, his illustrious career as a consulting criminal, like a trophy wall leading Sherlock straight to him. Moriarty did not want to be found now, but he still liked trophies. There must be something he was missing.

Carefully, Sherlock went through the timeline again. He stopped on his first unwitting meeting with Moriarty, in the lab at the hospital. He cursed himself. He had been so _clever_, so intent on showing off and so focused on what he thought was the real case. He had caught every detail and yet still missed the essence of what was right in front of him. Moriarty was good, but Sherlock should have been better. Still, Moriarty had been showing off as well. He played that scene over and over again. It held the key, he was sure now. But where was it?

His mind focused suddenly, with laser-like precision on a small piece of paper. Of course! How could he have been so blind? The answer had been staring him in the face for days, and he had ignored it, obstinately, time and time again. He groped blindly for consciousness, struggling through layers of exhaustion and chemicals, searching for a signpost that would help him get back to the world. His tether – a warm hand in his, anchoring a body that felt so far away. He went towards it.

* * *

John had spent the night half-dozing in the uncomfortable chair, occasionally jerking awake with a start to reassure himself that Sherlock was still breathing. Sherlock's hand still gripped his, and he kept his fingers on the slender wrist, the soft but steady beat easing his worry. Suddenly, just as John was in a drowsy moment between sleep and wakefulness, Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed. "The phone number!" he shouted.

John shot awake, startled. "Lie back down, you're not well," he managed, willing his heart rate to return to normal. Sherlock must have been dreaming.

"I am well, I'm better than well, I'm fantastic! Why are we holding hands? Why am I wearing your trousers?" Sherlock looked down, confused. "Is there something we need to talk about?"

"Aside from your recreational use of street drugs? No. I was keeping an eye on your pulse. You know, to make sure you didn't die. As for the trousers, you would know better than me. You were wearing them when I got home."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Well, I'll see that it doesn't happen again." He leapt to his feet. "I'm going out – may be gone for some time, don't wait up!"

John blocked the door. "Absolutely not. You still haven't eaten, you look like death, and you nearly overdosed last night."

"Nonsense, John, I'm the picture of health," Sherlock pulled his sallow features into what he clearly thought was a convincing smile. "See? All I needed was a good night's sleep."

"A drug-induced coma is not the same as a good night's sleep!"

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and pushed past John, thundering down the stairs two at a time. There was no denying he seemed energized and the sparkle was back in his eyes, but John could not see how he could possibly function given the events of the last week. Did the man actually live on his nerves? He trailed after him.

Sherlock was rummaging for his phone. "Alright, I can't stop you but I'm going with you," John said firmly. "If nothing else, you need medical supervision."

The taller man located and pocketed his mobile and wallet, and put on a pair of dressing slippers. "I'm sorry John, that just won't do. Besides, you look exhausted. You really should get some rest."

He bolted for the door. "Sherlock, you can't go out like that – it's freezing out there!" John protested. Sherlock was still bare-chested, wearing only the scarf and the trousers, which hung off his too-prominent hip bones and still barely reached his calves.

Sherlock paused and examined himself. "Quite right, John," he agreed. He grabbed his coat off the hook, stuffed something in the pocket, and tightened it around himself. He adjusted his scarf. "Much better. What would I do without you?"

"Was that my gun you just made off with?" John asked weakly. "And I suppose shoes and a shirt would take too much time?"

"Why would I take your gun? John, you must be seeing things." Sherlock grinned at him, turned up his collar, and was gone. John considered following him, but decided it would be a futile effort. Clearly Sherlock had a mission in mind. What had he shouted upon waking? John had been half asleep, but assumed it must have something to do with Moriarty. He only hoped Sherlock wasn't going to do anything too foolish.

John opened his phone. _SH off hunting. Think he has a lead on M. Danger. – JW._ He left out mention of last night's events. Mycroft didn't need to know. A moment later a reply came.

_He already lost the tail I put on him, but we'll pick him up again. Call if any news. – MH._

John did not find this reassuring, but couldn't think of a course of action other than to wait. He made a pot of tea.

* * *

Sherlock darted through the streets of London, moving quickly, circuitously, blood pumping and mind whirling. Watching his movements, no one could possibly derive his goal with any level of certainty. He'd already disposed handily of the two men on foot, one woman on a bicycle, and the black town car which appeared to have been shadowing him. At least one of the men on foot had been a bobby, probably one of Lestrade's men. The car and the bicyclist had certainly been his brother's. As for the other man, he suspected Moriarty, although that was probably not subtle enough for his taste. In the end it didn't matter who was following him and why, provided he could get rid of them.

The phone number! That was the important thing. The number Jim had slipped under his book in the lab, while playing the part of Molly's boyfriend. He'd discounted it as a pick-up attempt at the time, and after the pool had discounted it again. It certainly rang to an untraceable cellphone that would deactivated after their little meeting. Moriarty would never have been so foolish as to leave such an obviously loose end.

But, Sherlock now realized, he wouldn't have been able to resist leaving something behind. A hint, a last gloating message. Something Sherlock could use to find him, intentionally or not. That was his weakness – he couldn't resist boasting, toying with people, with Sherlock particularly. He wanted Sherlock to _know_ he was better than him. That was how he could be beaten.

Sherlock had tried to conjure up the number in his mind, but could only retrieve a few digits. He had only glanced at it once – normally that would be enough, but he had crumpled the paper when picking it up, in his annoyance over being disturbed in his work. Half the digits had been obscured. It was no use, he could not reasonably deduce the other numbers. He needed the note. It would still be amongst the piles of books and papers he'd left in the lab, he was sure of it. Molly never touched his things when he left them there, and never let anyone else touch them either. It looked like trash, but unless it had fallen to the floor it would be undisturbed.

It took him the better part of three hours to reach St. Bart's. He had perhaps been overly cautious in his route, but there was something to be said for paranoia. The lab was deserted. It was a Sunday, he realized with a start. He had quite lost track. He ran to the messy corner of the lab bench he had claimed as his own, scattering books and notes and slides carelessly in his haste. There it was. Scrawled in spidery writing:

(058) 7838-8382

He scrolled through his mental list of area codes. No country code, so must be inside the U.K. The area code indicated a large city, but it didn't match any he had on file. Of course creating a working phone number that matched no known location would be child's play for Moriarty. But why bother, why not just take a random number? It must be a message.

He closed his eyes and visualized the numbers floating in front of him. Was it a code or a password? No. It would be words, a clue. But what was the cypher? He tried various common encryption algorithms. Gibberish. Suddenly he smiled. It was simple, like the phone number. Moriarty _did_ want to be found. He wasn't taking any risks that Sherlock would be unable to solve the puzzle. The numbers merely corresponded to the alphabet on a phone keypad. He deduced the most likely letters to be used in combination with each other. Leaving off the leading null, it left him with:

JU RUET TEUB

He allowed the letters to rearrange themselves in his mind's eye until at last they settled into a recognizable form.

ET TU, BRUTE? – J

He laughed out loud. Moriarty felt hurt by _him_! That was a good joke indeed. If tracking down a criminal he had never met until recently was a betrayal, then he was happy to play that part. He took out his phone and dialed the number, not as written but in its unscrambled form: (038) 8827-8835.

It rang too long. Just as he was beginning to doubt that it was still connected, a confused female voice answered.

"Hello? Who is this?" He knew that voice.

"Molly," he said. Of course.

"Sherlock is that you? What are you doing calling me on this number?"

"Molly, tell me quickly, where did you get that phone? It's very important."

"I…I don't know… I heard ringing but it wasn't my mobile. I found this one behind some books in my flat. It's not mine, I don't know where it came from. Someone must have left it here. Is something wrong? Something's wrong I know it." She was tense, babbling as she always did when afraid.

"No, Molly, everything is exactly right. Turn the power off and take the battery out, then go outside," he said, flipping his phone shut. He waited 60 seconds and re-dialed Molly's actual mobile number. She answered immediately.

"Sherlock, what –" she began. "

"Listen to me carefully. I want you to hang up and leave your flat immediately. Bring the mobile you found. Go to Regent's Park. I will meet you there, on the outside of the zoo near the aviary. Don't get a cab on your street. Walk three streets over, and change cabs at least once on the way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but –"

"Now!" He ended the call. Had Moriarty left the phone at her apartment while he was pretending to date her, or had he planted it after their encounter at the pool? Did it matter? His point was clear. Molly was yet another trophy waiting to be collected. Just like the others. Just like John. Just like Sherlock, ultimately. Moriarty would know by now that he had found the phone, he'd be a fool if he hadn't set it to signal him when it was activated, but hoped that his precautions would be enough to keep Moriarty from knowing where Molly was meeting him. Her flat was certainly bugged, but he was gambling that there wasn't outside surveillance on her home. Nothing to be done if there was, anyway.

He made his way carefully to Regent's Park, disguising his path as well as he could, although he had to hurry – he did not want Molly to reach their meeting spot before he did, and it was starting to get dark.

Sherlock made it there with only moments to spare, and did not seem to have been followed. Molly appeared shortly, looking nervous.

"Do you have it?" he demanded. She nodded and dug in her purse, retrieving a cheap prepaid flip phone and its disconnected battery.

He took it. "Good girl. Now tell me, did you notice anything out of the ordinary today, anything at all in your apartment or on the way here? Think!"

"N-nothing. Nothing. Just the mystery mobile and you acting all dodgy. What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said dismissively.

"This phone was in my house and I didn't put it there, and I don't think any of my friends did either, so yes I am very worried about it!" It wasn't like Molly to be so firm, she must be quite upset. "It was him, wasn't? Jim? Moriarty? He did this. What does it mean?"

Sherlock relented. "Yes, it was him. What it means for you is that you will not go home tonight. You will stay with a friend, but not too close of a friend and not family. Tomorrow you will go home and you will search every corner of your flat and all of your possessions and discard anything that seems out of place. You will change your locks and give the key to no one, and change your mobile phone and number and all your internet passwords." He considered telling her to move to a new flat, but Moriarty would find her in any case if he wanted to – he could find anyone. The best Sherlock could do was make sure he didn't have completely free access to her home, person, or data. He made a mental note to search her flat for bugs himself when he was done with this business – she would never find them all.

"Is it that serious?" she asked, more frightened than ever.

"Yes. Maybe."

"And what does this mean for you?" she ventured.

"That's what I plan to find out." He tightened his scarf. "Go, get to a friend's before dark. Don't tell me where you're going."

She nodded. She reached out and touched him lightly on the arm. "Be careful?"

"I am nothing if not careful," he said, flashing her a hollow smile. She left and he followed her discreetly until she got safely in a cab. Then he turned his attention to the mobile. There didn't seem to be anything amiss with it. He re-inserted the battery and powered up the phone, listening for any faint signal or sign that additional hardware had been installed. There was nothing.

The phone was empty except for his own mobile number in the contacts. There were signs of a number of deleted outgoing text messages, probably automated and triggered by certain activities, but no way to quickly retrieve them. And there was one incoming text message, sent less than an hour ago. Two lines of text from a blocked number. The first read "_Totus mundus agit histrionem_". Latin again. All the world plays the actor. He knew that phrase. Another Shakespeare quotation as well. It was the motto of the Globe Theatre. Clearly, Moriarty was expecting him.

The second line read "_Ego futui domina_ – _J_". I fucked the lady. Sherlock's thin lips narrowed even further. He threw the phone to the sidewalk, and ground it into the pavement with his foot for good measure.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had been gone more than eight hours without a word. Nothing from Mycroft either. John was beginning to feel as jumpy as Sherlock often did. He dared not go out in case Sherlock came back, couldn't sleep in case there was a message or a call, and Sarah…well, he'd best leave that alone, at least for a little while. He had occupied himself with cleaning, reading the Sunday paper, and terrible telly for most of the day but he was running out of distractions.

At last he couldn't take it anymore. Something could really be wrong. The sun had gone down, and Sherlock was who knew where, possibly in a bad state, drugs still in his system. "You'll be the death of me," John muttered. He pulled out his mobile. "_Where are you? Is everything okay? – JW."_

He resolved to wait no more than ten minutes for a reply before calling Mycroft. Or Lestrade. Or going out to search himself. Something. Sitting here like this was madness. But he barely had time to decide on a course of action before a response quickly came.

"_Forgive me. My indiscretion sometimes serves me well. – SH._"

John stared at the text in bewilderment. Sherlock's messages were often cryptic, but this was a whole new level. "Forgive me" was unlike him to start, but the second part of the message… it had a literary ring to it, definitely a quotation. Shakespeare? Paraphrased, John thought. He wracked his brain trying to remember his A-Level literature. Which play? For some reason Hamlet stuck in his mind.

He opened his laptop and did a quick Google search. It _was_ from Hamlet. Act V:

_"Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting_

_That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay_

_Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly—_

_And prais'd be rashness for it—let us know_

_Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well..."_

"A bit on the nose there," John said to himself. But why Hamlet? Sherlock had never expressed any special fondness of the play, of any play really. He didn't seem to have much patience for them, in general. Why quote one now? And it was a tragedy. Was Sherlock alluding to a coming tragedy? His heart went cold. But then why employ a literary reference for it? It wasn't his style.

In frustration, he Googled "Hamlet", hoping for some insight into the play. Result after result of literary commentary filled his browser. He sighed. He enjoyed reading well enough, but parsing a 400 year old text for clues about his friend's activities was not his idea of an enjoyable evening. Especially when quick action was required. Then he saw it, in the top right of the screen, a little box that said "Results for 'Hamlet' near you".

John's heart skipped a beat. He ran upstairs, grabbed his spare gun and his jacket, and, pausing only to send a short text, ran out the door and into the darkened streets of London.

* * *

Sherlock paused in the shadows as he approached the huge, circular structure. The Globe loomed above him, in all its faux Elizabethan glory. He did not like meeting on someone else's terms. Then again, he had chosen the time and location of their last meeting and it had hardly been on his terms either. The question was not so much "why here?" as "why at all?" Moriarty could have continued watching him invisibly forever, or, alternatively, killed him outright. Why this meeting? It was certainly a trap, but to what point and purpose? He knew he was playing by someone else's rules now, but curiosity got the better of him and he went in.

The theater was empty, but not dark – lights burned in the seating area and stage. A new production of Hamlet was slated to start this week, and some of the sets had been moved in, but the Globe was closed and silent now. He walked on to the central stage and looked up. A few stars twinkled in the open air above him, just managing to outshine the light pollution of London. The place looked deserted, but it didn't feel deserted. He guessed there were at least half a dozen unseen figures tucked away in various corners. One of the trap doors in the stage was slightly ajar.

Cautiously, he opened it and peered down. He could see nothing. He descended the ladder, keeping one hand on the gun in his pocket, and whirled when he hit the ground. He was under the stage now, in the warren of tunnels and support beams which held up the famous playhouse and transported actors, props, and scenery to their required locations. It was dark, but not pitch black, not everywhere – low lights illuminated parts of the floor here and there. A few shafts of light likewise filtered down from the arena above, like unintended spotlights. Sherlock himself stood in the bright column of light from the open trap door above.

Sherlock heard a step behind him and turned, pulling his gun and aiming it at a slim, shadowy figure ten metres beyond him.

"Oh, please, let's not do _this_ again," a high pitched male voice said. "Isn't it getting a bit _tedious_? You have a gun, I have snipers everywhere, blah blah blah. You shoot me, I have you shot. Or, you shoot me, I have all your friends shot in their beds. Haven't really decided yet. Perhaps both. But in any case, _BORING_!"

Jim Moriarty stepped into a patch of light. He was wearing an army uniform, British, circa 1942. "Don't you _loooove_ it? They're setting Hamlet in World War II for this production. I have always_ adored_ men in uniform, and I think this one flatters me particularly, don't you?"

Sherlock did not react and kept the gun fixed on Moriarty, who sighed. "Can't we just agree that this is not productive and that I have the advantage, as always, and put our weapons away and chat like good little boys? Hmm?"

"You don't have a weapon."

"Let's just assume I always have a weapon, darling."

Sherlock met his eyes for a moment and then nodded curtly and put the gun back into his pocket. But kept his hand there.

"So much _better_!" Moriarty exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. He moved to the right, back into shadow. "Glad you made it here – I was hoping it would still be free when you found my little…message. I must admit to being a tad _theatrical_ myself, so I thought it would be fitting."

Sherlock could barely make him out in the dimness. "Why did you make it so easy?"

"It took you a week to solve it, that doesn't sound _easy_ to me."

"I was laboring under the false assumption that you were cleverer than you apparently are," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, turning slowly as the sound Moriarty's voice continued to move, trying to keep the other man in view.

"Oh, I am more clever than you could _possibly_ imagine." Moriarty laughed from the darkness. "But I wanted to see you again. And obviously you _really _wanted to see me."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

"Ah, that's what I_ love_ about you! So upfront. So _direct_. We may have different styles, but in the end we are _sooooo_ similar." Sherlock had lost him in the gloom, but could still detect the sound of his footprints, circling.

"Are we?" he asked.

"Oh you know we are, dear. We work the same way. Granted I work at a _bit_ higher of a level than you…but fundamentally, we're alike."

"I don't see it," Sherlock said coolly.

"_LIAR_!" Moriarty screamed, now somewhere to his left. "You're as fascinated by me as I am by you. We may have ended up on different sides of the equation, but that's how equations balance. Maybe mommy and daddy didn't love me enough, and that's why I'm the criminal and you're the detective. Maybe I just had a _baaaaad _upbringing."

"Did you?" Sherlock asked with mild interest.

"No. We were poor, but _happy_, as the saying goes. You?"

"Rich and miserable."

"Ah."

Moriarty was silent for a few moments. The footsteps had stopped. Sherlock cocked his head trying to locate him. Suddenly, he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck.

He spun. Moriarty was inches from his face.

"And now, you come down here in a positive _frenzy_…" he pulled at the belt of Sherlock coat and it fell open. "Not even making time to get dressed properly. Tsk tsk. Slippers! No shirt. And…oh my…are those _his_ trousers? They certainly aren't yours. My dear, if you wanted to get into a smaller pair of slacks, all you had to do was _ask_." Sherlock made a sound of disgust.

Moriarty looked him up and down lasciviously. "Now, normally faced with you half naked I would just eat you up with a_ spoon_, but you really haven't been taking care of yourself. I can see every rib. This simply won't do."

Sherlock frowned. "I would have thought I'd be doing you a favor. Easier for you if I just wither away on my own."

Moriarty pursed his lips. "We-ll _easier_, sure. But so much less _fun_! We all have our fascinations. I know at least one or two of yours." He nodded at Sherlock's purpling arm. "You have…chemical proclivities…among other things. Maybe you're _my_ heroin…you're bad for me but I keep coming right on back, can't stay away! And you are so _very_ fascinating. Plus, those _cheekbones_. They could slit my heart right open!"

He rubbed his hands together. "So, we've established that you've been…_troubled _by some things…and that you were desperate enough to run out half dressed as soon as you figured out how to find me. So, tell me, what can I do for the great Consulting Detective, hmm? Anything you desire! Name it!"

"Tell me what you meant," Sherlock said grimly, "when you said you'd burn my heart out."

Moriarty shrieked with laughter. "That's it? That's _all _that's been troubling you?"

"Not all. But it's on the list."

"See, that's the difference between us, darling. I don't care about _anything_, except the game. And I don't even care about that except as a way to pass the time. But you…you _care_. You don't like to admit it, but you care oh, so _very_ much about a very few things. Which is why it will hurt all the more when I take them from you."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "What could you take from me?"

Moriarty went up on his toes. "Everything," he hissed in Sherlock's ear. "It wouldn't even be _hard_."

Sherlock pushed him away violently, stumbling into the darkness.

Moriarty smoothed his uniform and followed him. "Your heart lies in two places, just two little _tiiiiiiiny_ things. The first is your perception of yourself as…a savior, a genius, a solver of the unsolvable. You want to be a hero, you want to be a _god_! And, my dear, you _are_, compared to the rest of the brain-dead slugs who walk around on this dismal earth." His eyes shone in the murky light, like a cat's. "But I could take it all away so quickly, _sooooooo_ quickly that you wouldn't even know until it had gone."

Sherlock found he was beginning to back away, and forced himself to stand his ground. "I think you underestimate my abilities," he said with false calm.

"Not at _all_," Moriarty said smoothly. "In fact, a less formidable man would be much, _much_ harder to destroy. Now as for the rest of your heart…well I think we both know where that is, and I must say, Sherlock, I'm just a _liiiiiiittle_ bit hurt, really I am. He's so…_ordinary_. Breathtakingly ordinary. Not worthy of someone like you at all."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. Now, don't get offended, I do _see_ the attraction, though I've never been partial to blondes myself. But he's got a little fight and plenty of loyalty. So _average_ though! It's been bothering me really, after all this time, why you wouldn't _consider_ someone….why someone like little old me! We'd make a great team, don't you think? Well, in a sense we already do…We have such a long and _intimate_ history, you and I, I don't understand how you can just throw it all _AWAY_! You just dismiss what we have like it's _nothing _to you. And I thought I was supposed to be the cruel one."

"_Et tu, Brute_?" Sherlock quoted. "Is that what this is all about? Really?"

"Not what it's _all _about, no – don't be ridiculous. It's about life…and death… it's about the Final Problem. You of all people should know that!" Moriarty was shouting now. "But, yes I am disappointed in you, Sherlock Holmes. It _offends_ me that you would sully yourself with devotion to such a _common _specimen. You're always _doing _that! You surround yourself with the common, but you're not one of them. Not any more than I am. How can you stand it? The stinking _weight_ of it all the time. You're better than that…and you let them diminish you, _constantly_!"

Sherlock laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "So you're jealous! That is a petty emotion. Kind of…common." He took a step toward Moriarty.

Moriarty shrugged, and did not move away. "What can I say, no one's perfect. And since we are the only two of a kind in the world, what you do _reflects_ on me. I wouldn't want people to think I enjoy _slumming_, would I? Besides, you really are so _delicious_, can you blame me for wanting you all to myself?"

Sherlock smiled and did up his coat, one button at a time. He turned up his collar. "Well, since you're so worried about it," he said, taking another, more forceful step forward, pushing Moriarty back with sheer strength of will. "I will tell you what I've done and you can tell me how you think it _reflects _on you. I have called in elite trained, MI-5 forces, in numbers ten times what you could possibly have guarding this building. They have been alerted to all the places you could possibly have hidden snipers in and around the theatre, and those men are probably already dead."

"Did you tell them about the explosives, too?" Moriarty asked, then laughed as Sherlock hesitated. "Just _kidding_, I don't have this place rigged with explosives. That would have been great, though – oldest theatre in London, _BOOM!_ The Globe burns yet again! I must make a note of that. Never mind, you were saying?"

Sherlock re-composed himself and backed Moriarty closer towards the base of the trap door. His voice was steel. "I was saying that in, by my estimate, under a minute very strong men with very large guns will be coming. They will take you away, to a dark place where no one will ever, ever find you. They may even torture you, although of course that would be completely unofficial, since the British Government doesn't go in for that sort of thing. No one will even know to ask where you are, and I am guessing no one would care to."

"That's where you're wrong – I care for no one, but I'm _rather_ good at getting people to care for me…as you may have noticed." He raised an eyebrow lecherously.

They were back at the start now, in the little pool of light from the trapdoor. Sherlock slammed Moriarty against the ladder. "And if anyone harms so much has a hair on my head or on the heads of those around me, you will suffer the most painful death anyone in England can possibly devise."

Moriarty giggled. "You think I care about _that_?"

"I think you care about living to see the end of the game. Since our time is growing short, it's my turn to ask what I can do for you, Consulting Criminal." Sherlock spread his hands mockingly. "Anything you desire! Or at least anything before our guests arrive. Ten seconds."

"Oh, my _very_ dear Sherlock," Moriarty breathed with an ecstatic smile. "You have already done it. You have given me…._everything_… I always wanted." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "And I won't be forgetting it." Then the black figures emerged from the shadows and engulfed them, and Moriarty was gone, laughing the whole way.

* * *

Mycroft met Sherlock outside the theatre. "That was very brave and very foolish of you, Sherlock. But you have the gratitude of the Crown. And…mine," he added reluctantly.

"I didn't do it for your gratitude, or the Crown's," Sherlock replied tersely.

"I am well aware of that," Mycroft sniffed. "But you have it, whether you like it or not. You know, even with all my influence we won't be able to hold him forever. He's got too many friends, too much money, too many people who owe him. I can't just make him disappear, at least not for very long, not unless I get something concrete out of him. Is there anything I should know?"

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "No. Except that he will ask about me. You only have him because he wants you to have him, and that's only because he thinks he will be able to learn about me through you. If he sees that is not happening, he will slip through your fingers at once. Tell him… tell him everything he wants to know, but not immediately. You may get something from him that way. Normal interrogation techniques, torture will have no effect on him. He has no pressure points, but his interest in me may be…a weakness…you can use."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but did not comment. "Are you sure that's a good idea? He wants to kill you."

"No, dear brother," Sherlock said tightly. "He wants to destroy me. And my only chance at escaping such an end is to learn enough to destroy him first."

Mycroft gave a curt nod, and began to walk away.

"Warn me," Sherlock called after him. "When you release him. I need time."

"I'll give you as long as I can," the older man agreed, and slipped away into the last moments of the night with his army and his prisoner.

Sherlock turned away from the theatre and was surprised to see John running towards him, not 50 metres away. He shocked his friend by pulling him into a spinning bear hug, whooping with his victory and relief, however short-lived it might turn out to be.

John coughed as Sherlock set him back down, hiding a grin. "So, I take it everything is…okay…then?" he said. "Is that it, is it over with Moriarty, forever?"

"Not remotely. But it doesn't matter right now." Sherlock's face grew stern. "What are you doing here? I meant for you to alert Mycroft, not come yourself!"

"Well, I did both," John said irritably. "I wasn't going to just sit around and expect your brother to fix everything. He's done a lot but I don't totally trust him."

"Neither do I," Sherlock said, cheerfully.

"And by the way, next time you send a message with incredibly urgent information that is vital to your survival and the safety of the entire nation, would you mind being a little less god-damned enigmatic about it?"

"Well if I was less enigmatic, anyone intercepting our messages would know exactly what was happening." Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder. "Besides, I knew you'd figure it out. In time. But walking towards a trap alone, telling no one what you were doing – it's downright irresponsible, John. I was busy enough without having to save you as well."

"Oh, and what do you call what you did today? Going for a stroll? Anyway, I am here, in no need of saving whatsoever."

"Quite right." Sherlock smiled. "Well, that's it for today. What say we go for Sunday lunch? I'm famished! And then – we have rather a backlog of applications for casework, if I'm not mistaken."

"Sherlock, it's Monday. And it's breakfast time. Barely."

"Is it really?" Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised, and squinted at the first rays of dawn lightening the horizon. "Well, let's see if we can't find somewhere to do us a nice roast and a Yorkshire pudding anyway. And then back to work!"

John sighed, tolerantly. "I don't suppose you'll be wanting to get some sleep before then, will you?"

"Not at the moment!" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he strode away briskly. "Come along, John."


End file.
